Philosophy of the Keexzus, No. 54: Democracy, Consciousness, & Time

Narratives stretch across time.

Chapters are interwoven illusions. The lead character is a composite of all projections. The discoloration of the canvas begins with one stroke of the pen. An endless canon for the mind to pick and choose. One narrative here, one there, and still, more Others.  The protection and salvation of one narrative is the ideological foundation. The ideological state of ego states and favors one grand narrative. One narrative doesn’t necessarily have to dissolve the Other.

Travel the world in dreams.

How well can the mind tell a story?

Language paints the page. Moving, shifting sounds. The poison drip of reality and the indestructible carriage, the language of absence that fills all wounds. The structure of the illusion is rarely seen. The narratives that appear in the mind’s eyes dissolve an emerging truth. To interpret the lives of others is a disgusting skill. To believe anything is dangerous. And sleeping somewhere oft in the house, still more energy.

The water runs endlessly.

I feel an energy I cannot comprehend. I hear a language I cannot understand. I hear the echoes of pain somewhere in the incoherent ramblings. I hear the schizophrenic sounds of my brother. And perhaps that is the 1st fiction. The mind destroying itself. I cannot begin to begin any discussion. Abandoning its shadow, allocating reasons for all Others. The world begins.

The sculpted energy enters the eclipse. The soundless stage stretches across the continental, the language of escape. The indestructibility of time taunts mind. Metaphors are always already metaphors. Perhaps it is not a matter to let go of pain, but to cease digging an endless excavation and the narratives that have taken root deep within.  The insufferable world of narratives pervade the mind. The insatiable thirst for pleasure. Leveraging all that is pain. The mind is indestructible. The indestructible mind.

We can win.

One universe, one thousand. Thoughts in observation. Distillation of the heart’s content. This is cold sober meditation. The mind is destroying itself. The mind is not a democracy. Literature is the identification with narratives. The narrative lives with or without the mind. Narratives become sentient and seek their continuation. Identifications like fog, like storms. Varying degrees of consciousness. Consciousness directed outward, inward. The foundations of structure seek the dialect of change.

Transform the world through language.

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